


Be My Baby

by ister



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: (who are we kidding), Betaed, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-19 09:03:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11894454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ister/pseuds/ister
Summary: Prompt: if you're still taking prompts maybe one where when solo realises that he's in love with illya, starts being really nervous and clumsy around him? and illya has no idea what's going on and why napoleon is suddenly a stuttering, nervous mess when they're togetherIt’s a small gesture, the way Illya clenches his eyes shut, hair disheveled, almost boyish, but it warms Napoleon to the core and he feels himself starting to blush. To his luck, he can blame the heat on this rather inconvenient reaction.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by anonymous

It all starts in Cairo. The only person to blame is Illya, really. Illya with his shy smile and his little gestures and his whole existence.

Napoleon is feeling quite melodramatic these days.

They are on a stakeout mission, watching their target while he is up and about, trying to make his way through the bustling crowd of the Khan el-Khalili.  
“Do you think he knows we’re following him?” Napoleon asks suddenly, because he feels his attention slipping.

By the way Illya startles, long limbs tensing up, jaw clenching, he knows his partner is in a similar situation. Today marks the hottest day in a very sunny week and he curses Waverly for sending them to Egypt.

_Lighten up, agent. It’s an easy mission and both of you will be able to visit the sights afterwards._

Of course this was enough to persuade Napoleon into packing his things, grabbing Illya and flying to Cairo. While their mission is a fairly easy one - observing a rising warlord, which is as close to vacation as they can get - the heat makes everything worse. He curses himself for falling for Waverly’s trap and vows to never let himself get bribed with antique sites again.

“You’re not listening, are you?” Illya wants to know, annoyance creeping into his voice.

“No, I wasn’t, I’m terrible sorry, darling,” he replies, smiling at him.

As expected, his partner gets flustered, gaping like a fish freshly out of the water before he regains his composure.

“I used to be Peril,” he grumbles, turning his face away.

Napoleon continues to smile, happy the new way of getting under his partner’s skin is working. _You could just tell him, like every normal person would_ , Gaby’s voice rings in his ear. _And where’s the fun in that?_ he had replied.

“He is talking to Salma,” Illya says, trying to stifle a yawn and covering his mouth with the back of his hand.

It’s a small gesture, the way Illya clenches his eyes shut, hair disheveled, almost boyish, but it warms Napoleon to the core and he feels himself starting to blush. To his luck, he can blame the heat on this rather inconvenient reaction.

Trying to distract Illya from him, he starts to complain about the temperature but keeps an eye on Salma, their local contact. He certainly doesn’t notice how the simple linen shirt Illya is wearing stretches across his chest as he shifts weight from one foot to the other, and he most certainly doesn't choke on his own spit.

His partner seems downright amused by his antics. It is a sight to behold, not because it’s rare these days, but because he seems to almost shine in the late afternoon sun.

“We have what we want,” he says, flicking invisible dust from Napoleon's shoulder, before his restless fingers flatten a few creases on their way down to his arms.

“We do?” Napoleon asks, willing his voice to sound normal and his eyebrows wandering upwards.

For a moment, Illya's hand twitches, but he curls it into a loose fist and lets go of him completely.  There are miles between them again.

“Yes,” he murmurs, “didn't you pay attention? He told Salma the location. Same blue envelope. Same paper burned where they stand.”

“Which means he’s involved with THRUSH,” Napoleon concludes.

“A little bit slow today, are we?” Illya jokes, mischief lighting up his features.

“Who taught you to be this cocky, Kuryakin?” wants to know as they start walking.

As expected, Illya is there, right back into his personal space, a hand on his back. It's not a motion to guide him into a certain direction, but rather a reassurance, because crowds make him nervous. 

“A certain someone with terrible fashion taste,” Illya quips. 

“I beg your pardon?!” Napoleon sputters, voice breaking for no apparent reason. 

“Luckily for this certain someone, everything he wears appears to be tailored just for him.” Illya applies more pressure for a fleeting moment, leaving Napoleon to wonder why, until he spots the small market stand with the lovely old man behind it who had kept them from doing any work yesterday. 

“Peril, we're finished for today.”

“And I don't want to hear anything more about you being the perfect son in law.” 

Surprisingly, Napoleon feels himself growing bold. “Well, I am a very good catch.” 

Illya grumbles something under his breath that sounds like: “Yes, you are.” 

They pass the stand and Napoleon is able to gesture at Illya, excusing his partner's behaviour. The merchant - Tazim - waves it off, a mirthful smile on his face. 

With sudden clarity, Napoleon remembers him saying: “I could introduce the two of you, but I think your man wouldn’t approve of it.”

Now he gets that what he had waved off as a playful jab at Illya's possessive side the day before means something else entirely. His unhelpful brain had provided him the German translation of a word, quickly worming its way into his memory. Only the word - Mann in German, goz in Egyptian - can't be translated to “man”, it means _husband_.

The sound he hears is definitely a mouse dying a slow and terrible death nearby, not leaving his mouth. Illya must’ve heard it as well, but he only shoots him a curious glance and walks a little bit faster.

Napoleon snuffles and tries not to look at his partner, navigating them both through the crowd. The other man’s jaw is set, his eyes determined, all tense and skimming the bazaar for possible enemies. 

“Since we’re off for the evening,” Napoleon says, once they are in a small side alley, away from prying eyes and amused merchants, “Tameya? What do you think?” 

Illya looks at him and his breath hitches while his heart beats a frantic rhythm in his chest. Napoleon doesn’t know what has gotten into him. 

“I know just the place,” he croaks.

If Illya thinks his voice giving in is strange, he doesn’t mention it, just nods and touches the back of Napoleon’s hand to signal he’s ready to walk again. “Lead the way, Cowboy.” 

They make it to the small restaurant in no time, even though Napoleon kept tripping over his own feet. 

“I think we should get you something to drink,” Illya had said after the third time, worry prominent in his features. 

“Yes, that’s it,” Napoleon had replied, wincing at his poor choice of words. 

“Uh-huh.” 

Now that they’re seated at a small table, both with their backs against the wall and able to overlook the whole restaurant, he feels himself relax. Right until Salma squeezes in beside them, because now he has to press up against Illya. 

His partner makes everything worse by putting an arm around him, pulling him in. “Do you have enough space?” Illya wants to know, which sounds more like a German sentence than an English one. 

There are fingers drawing small circles on his ribs, senseless patterns. He wonders why Illya feels the need to touch him constantly, especially when they are in company. 

“Sure, sure.” Salma nods and slides a small envelope over. “The location. He wants to meet up there and trade weapons for money. We just need to record the transaction and the two of you can step in.”

“You want UNCLE to step in?” Illya asks. 

“INTERPOL, our cover, Peril,” Napoleon corrects, not being able to look into his eyes - not, when Illya’s hand has stopped it’s travel downwards, now resting on his hip.

“Exactly.” Salma smiles and stands again. “But you could consider pretending to be in a relationship for your next cover, since you two do play a very believable couple. Could’ve fooled me.” She winks at both of them, then she is off. 

Napoleon makes a small sound, a mixture between a desperate laugh and an exasperated sigh. The first half of the sentence he wants to direct at Illya dies in his mouth when the other man doesn’t let go of him, but starts caressing him again. “Get along well with Gaby.” 

“I do not understand.” Illya turns his head.

They are close, too close and if it weren’t for their waiter to arrive, Napoleon would’ve done something very embarrassing. Instead, he orders their food and drinks, voice shaky and offkey, with the attempt of an easy smile on his face. 

If anything, it seems to put off their waiter as well as Illya, both of them exchanging a quick glance. His partner’s face hardens for the fracture of a second before he leans back a bit, still not letting go of him. Surprised, Napoleon huffs and assures their waiter everything is as it should be. 

The man nods and runs his left hand over his slicked back hair. “Lama mahtagany, ana tahta amrak,” he tells them, offering his service. 

With a small nod, Napoleon voices his gratitude. “Shukran.”

Illya waits until the waiter is out of their sight before he opens the envelope, leaving Napoleon with a strange and empty feeling when he lets go of him. Despite his urge to whine about the loss of contact, he’s distracted by Illya’s groan. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“She left enough money to pay for our food.” 

“You can’t be serious!” 

“Afraid, I am.” Illya pinches him in the side lightly, using Napoleon’s momentary surprise to his advantage, slinging an arm around his torso again.  
His own hand shakes a little when he brings it up to his partner’s back and splays his fingers it at the base of his spine. Rather unhelpfully, he imagines Illya’s breath hitching.

The worst thing about it is he can imagine them having lazy sex like this - simple touches, wrapped around each other, not caught in the usual post mission frenzy and enjoying the intimacy. He can imagine Illya coming undone under his hands, all flushed and nervous energy, the opposite of his usual calm exterior. He can imagine it so well, it appears to be almost real. But it isn't and it never will be.

Nevertheless, he snuggles closer to Illya, chucks him under the chin lightly when he whispers a witty remark and settles for his partner's warmth. Illya’s hand never stops it's travel up and down his side, and for the moment, he lets himself be happy.


	2. Chapter 2

“I’d love to be in a warm country for a change,” Napoleon moans, his handsome face scrunching up in distaste.

“We just came here from Cairo,” Illya replies, more amused by his abrupt change of topic than annoyed. 

It is one of the small things that has marked a change in their relationship over the past year. Illya knows that Napoleon’s dramatic antics are his way of distracting everyone else from the matters he really cares about. 

For a few seconds he allows himself to look, scrutinising his partner. With his relaxed features, a dark pullover with arms too long to be his, hair without product and open posture, he looks so beautiful that Illya aches for him.

“At least Québec in the fall isn’t as cold as the Russian winter,” he tries to contribute to the conversation. 

Napoleon simply waves him off. “You have no say in this.” He fiddles with his signet ring rather nervously, looking anywhere but at Illya. 

Stepping forward, he leans against the railing of the small balcony, providing a nice view over the city. “And how’s that?” Illya wants to know. 

His partner’s teeth are chattering. “Your polar bear-ness.” 

There is an audible _click_ as both of them shut their mouths at the same time. It takes Illya a second to digest what has left Napoleon’s lips - more time than he likes to admit. As soon as the penny drops, he cracks up. 

“Kuryakin,” Napoleon warns, scowling, looking like a disgruntled owl with his locks getting ruffled under the cold autumn breeze. 

“Cowboy,” he says between giggles, “There are no polar bears in Russia.”

“There ‘s one,” Napoleon replies, crossing his arms - a habit he picked up from Illya. “And he’s the most infuriating one I’ve ever met.”

“You have met a lot of polar bears?” Illya asks, noticing how close they are.

He can see the speck of brown in his partner’s eye, wants to reach out and touch his face. It’s an uncommon thought, a rare occurrence, but thrilling nonetheless. 

Napoleon studies his face, searching for something. Illya doesn’t know what and he doesn’t dare ask. 

Moments in complete silence pass, hours, days, months, he loses track of time. The only thing that matters is them standing on the small balcony, their own private bubble, and the world shut out.

Illya imagines the edge of a cliff, Napoleon’s playfulness pulling him towards it, daring him to jump. Briefly closing his eyes, he decides to take the last step forward, into the other man’s waiting arms. 

He sidles up with him, now even closer to his shivering form than before and nudges his upper arm with his elbow. There is a sharp intake of breath and Napoleon shivers again, his exhale clearly visible.

“I have a suggestion,” Illya says, tone whimsical, licking his lips like he has seen Napoleon do so many times before.

“Oh?” His partner tries and fails to imitate his curious gaze, focus clearly on Illya’s mouth.

“How about I help warm you up?” Their noses are almost touching and he is able to see every small change in his partner’s face.

To his surprise and utter delight, Napoleon blushes bright red. “W-warm me up?” he repeats.

“Warm you up,” Illya replies, not ready to give a more specific answer yet.

Instead of what he expects, his partner ducks his head. “Oh.”

“Cowboy,” he starts, already mourning their eye contact and the shift of the atmosphere. 

Although mourning might be a too strong word, he can’t help but feel sorry. Napoleon’s face changes rapidly and he seems ready to step away from him. Before he’s able to do so, Illya pulls him into a hug, too fierce for his liking, but he wants his point to come across.

For the first few seconds, a surprised yelp is all the response he gets, but then Napoleon melts against him, almost purring. Gingerly, Illya starts rubbing his back, refraining from kissing his partner’s temple. 

“Wanted to do this for a long time,” he confesses. 

“Freeze to death?” Napoleon quips, but doesn't look up. 

From where he stands, Illya can see the tips of his ears turning red, which has to be a reaction to the cold. 

“Hugging you,” he confesses, closing his eyes because he is sure he'll never be able to be this close to Napoleon again. 

Illya has been tortured before, mostly to get information. He never would've guessed it's much more painful to wait _for_ information. His reply to the question of which torture is the worse to handle would be the description of the agonisingly slow passing seconds before his partner buries his face in his neck. 

Napoleon whispers something against his skin, his lips barely touching him, but to Illya it feels like a kiss nonetheless. Without intending to, his mouth falls open, shivers running down his spine.   
“What was that?” he asks, a little bit out of breath. 

His partner just sighs and clings to him, pressing his lips to his neck. This time, Illya can't mistake it for anything else than what it is and goes rigid. 

Napoleon lets go of him at once, mortification clearly visible on his face. “I-I’m sorry. I-I just-”

Before he can say anything else, Illya steps forward and cups his face with both hands. “It’s okay,” he says, “It's okay.” 

“It is?” Hesitantly, his partner places his hands on his hips, drawing him closer. 

“Da, yes.” Illya can't help but laugh. 

Napoleon joins in, although he would categorise it as a nervous chuckle. “Yes,” he repeats, looking up to him. 

For a few moments, they stand in silence, simply looking at each other. Then, Illya blurts out: “Can I kiss you?”

As expected, Napoleon's eyebrows shoot upwards. His answer, however, comes unexpected. “Of course.” 

Another small pause, then Illya blinks. “Oh. I should-” 

“Yes.” Napoleon smiles. 

And Illya can't resist any longer, leans forward and lets their lips touch in what has to be the softest kiss of his entire life. It only lasts for a few seconds because he doesn't want to ruin the atmosphere. 

“Was that all right?” Illya wants to know afterwards. 

“Of course,” Napoleon repeats and laughs, “Of course.” 

He stands on his tiptoes and kisses him again, more daring than Illya was, but keeps the pace slow. Sweet comes to his mind when he feels Napoleon stroking the small of his back. Sweet and probably too sappy, but for once he doesn't care. 

When Napoleon ends the kiss after pecking his lips repeatedly, he laughs again. “Shy like two school boys after their first kiss.” 

Illya only hums, but from how much the corners of his mouth hurt, his smile must be wider than Napoleon's. “I quite like it.” 

“Me too.”

Then, and before he can respond, Napoleon pulls him down into a demanding kiss, melting against him and sighing happily when Illya’s hands start to wander. Teasing his lips open with his tongue, his partner uses every trick in the book to make his knees go weak. They don't separate for a while, too wrapped up in each other. 

“We should go inside,” Illya mumbles when they do, mouth still pressed to Napoleon's. 

“Yes, we should.” 

It turns in another kiss, his partner winding his arms around Illya's neck, pullover riding up. The pale stretch of skin is too inviting for him to resist and he lets his hands travel there, thumbs stroking Napoleon's hips. 

The other man hisses, all but flinching, and Illya lets go of him immediately. “Sorry, I-” 

“Your hands are cold,” Napoleon interrupts him and hides his face again by hugging him. “You suggested warming up? Sounds like a marvellous idea.” 

This time, Illya doesn't hold back and kisses the other man's temple softly. “Then let's go inside.” 

A short nod, a press of lips against his ear, an amused chuckle when he flinches away. Napoleon grabs his hand, intertwining their fingers and pulls him into the small apartment they are staying in for the duration of the mission. It is plain and simple, barely decorated, but for some reason Illya feels at home. The thought of leaving it abandoned once they're finished doesn't sit well with him. 

He gets distracted by his partner stepping out of his boots and nearly tripping over his own feet. Before anything can happen to him, Illya pulls him against his chest. 

“I see, we're starting now,” Napoleon jokes and squeezes his forearm lightly with both of his hands. 

“Yes,” Illya says before he lets go of him to get out if his own outdoor wear. 

When he looks up, Napoleon is still dressed in his pullover. “Don’t you want to take it off?” he asks. 

“No.” His partner pecks him on the lips, before he saunters off into the kitchen. “Get the blankets ready, will you?” he shouts over his shoulder. 

“Blankets?” Illya asks. 

Napoleon turns around and walks the last few steps backwards. “For warming up,” he explains and disappears out of his sight. 

Dumbfounded, Illya stays where he is and snaps into motion as soon as he hears Napoleon bustling about in the kitchen. He's faster than his partner, which doesn't surprise him since Napoleon is rather lazy when it comes to their off time and since he likes to clean up immediately - at least if it concerns the kitchen.

Illya sits down and waits for him to finish. As soon as he does, Napoleon strolls over to him, an easy smile on his face. 

With one fluent motion, he puts both cups down on one of the side tables flanking the couch, causing the rich scent of black tea to fill his nose, and gets out of his jeans afterwards. Illya gives an amused huff. 

Napoleon just shrugs. “You should too, it's liberating.” 

“What if Gaby comes home?” he asks, unable to hide the amusement in his voice.

“She's seen both of us naked before and this time we aren't undressed.” Napoleon looks down at him, both arms crossed again. 

“It's indecent,” Illya protests, but gets up anyway. 

“It's underwear,” the other man corrects, unbuttoning his trousers. 

“No, no, let me.” As fast, but as gentle as possible, Illya bats his hand away. 

He takes his trousers off as well, balling them up and throwing them onto an unoccupied wing chair. 

“Hopeless,” Napoleon mumbles, clearly not expecting an answer. 

“What now?” Illya asks, feeling nervous all of a sudden. 

“Under the blankets, of course,” his partner replies, as if it's the most obvious thing to do. 

His brain needs time to catch up before he sits down and looks up at Napoleon, tucking at his hand because insecurity affects them both in equal ways. With a small grin, his partner leans down, massaging his nape and pressing a soft kiss onto his lips.

Then, he snuggles up to Illya and wraps an arm around his torso. “Right where I want to be,” he sighs. 

Lacking the vocabulary to describe what he is feeling, Illya kisses his temple and buries his nose in Napoleon's curls. “Right where I want to have you,” he replies, pulling his partner into his arms.   
Napoleon protests, signaling he wants to slip under the blanket. “More comfortable,” he mumbles. 

They share a tender kiss before Napoleon grabs for the tea, handing him his cup. Illya allows himself to look at his partner, cheeks flushed, hair disheveled, a small smile on his face and thinks that he's never seen a more breathtaking sight. 

With his free hand, Napoleon starts massaging his nape again, his fingers carding through Illya's hair from time to time. Letting out a happy sigh, he starts stroking Napoleon's hip. 

Never would he have guessed his partner's idea of warming up could involve cuddling on a couch, drinking tea and getting lost in kisses. Somehow though, it fits and when Illya tries to come up with another scene, he finds himself unable to do so. Therefore he decides to focus on the things that matter, the present, Napoleon, the quiet intimacy.

After all, it's right where he wants to be as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks a lot for reading! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it. Comments and kudos are always appreciated :D
> 
> A huge shout out to my lovely beta [Diana](http://ewansmcgregors.tumblr.com/), who helped a lot. Without her, this would be sitting in my drafts.
> 
> That's about it, have a good one!


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